


Lost with My Head in the Clouds

by AnderStormwind



Category: BRADBURY Ray - Works, Original Work
Genre: Character Deaths, Gen, Original work - Freeform, Pre apocalyptic event, Prequel to There Will Come Soft Rains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnderStormwind/pseuds/AnderStormwind
Summary: This is a direct prequel to Ray Bradbury’s There Will Come Soft Rains. It explores the fateful day of the bombing from the House’s point of view.
Kudos: 2





	Lost with My Head in the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct prequel, so for the best experience you can read Ray Bradbury’s There Will Come Soft Rains short story either before or after this fic, but you don’t have to read that story to understand this one.

Lost with My Head in the Clouds

Mr. McClellan's voice rumbled through the air like a gentle thunder, and the house sighed from a hundred pipes as it sat back to relax, listening as always to its master.

  
“What are you afraid of my dear? The war will end as soon as it will begin, we have weapons and defenses, and plus, we live hundreds of miles from the capital. If they ever dare to invade, they won’t make it even half way.”

  
“I know Charles, of course, but best to keep your voice down and not wake the little ones.” Mrs. McClellan sighed, her sweet voice flicking away the bad thoughts like a summer breeze.

  
The house hummed happily, gentle music wafting into the ears of the little children, filling their dreams with the peace and calm of an open valley in the height of summer. The house smiled as only it could, it’s lightbulb eyes dimming dreamily as it watched and listened to the patter of its masters making their last rounds before retiring for the night. Finally, content with its job well done, the house allowed it’s yellow eyes to close, the bliss and happiness settling down like a favorite blanket tucked in close.  
  
In the dark of the night, the robot mice whirled their tiny wheels as they scampered forward to suck up any stray dust, their red eyes tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness. Yet there contained no malice in them, these eyes were not the glowing embers that haunted children’s dreams, instead it was merely a welcome sign of life. They whisked to and fro, contentedly setting out to do their duty, lights only finally blinking out when they vanished into their burrows.

  
Silence reigned, and yet the house never slept, it kept it’s vigil, a silent servant eager to please. Like a cat it rested, ever aware, even with its eyes firmly closed.

  
With a thousand little ears strained into the night, it listened ever attentively to the sounds of the town humming below. Yet even with its keen ears ever pricked, it did not register the nonstop growl of the steel mills spewing black smoke from its furnaces, yet it always listened in rapt attention to the groans and moans of the other houses below. Perched high on the hilltop, it listened with glee as they creaked and swayed, how the automated systems resisted and rebelled. The house hummed happily to itself, Mr. McClellan’s boasting, and Mrs. McClellan’s lavishing praise running circuits around its wire brain.

  
Somewhere deep in the house, an automated voice murmured dreamily,

  
“0 o’clock and all’s well.” It whispered, then again in a calming fashion, a voice so soft that it never desturbed it's sleeping patrons.

  
A _ping_ sounded from the house's messaging system, and ever dutifully it turned an ear inward.

  
“My joints can’t stop squeaking, it's driving my Mistress mad, but there’s nothing I can do. My Oiler Mice have long since stopped oiling, they could fix everything just not themselves. Now there’s no one to do the job, and I'm sure to be rusting like a bike left in the rain.” A house at the bottom of the hill whined in its sorrow. A chorus of other pings sounded in agreement, a tiny ruckus of joined anguish.

  
The house listened quietly, never joining in, as once more it remembered its Masters praise. _My joints never squeak,_ it thought silently to itself, _my systems are the pinnacle of technological perfection. None will surpass my ability nor devotion._

  
A different low built house suddenly piped in,

  
“My masters are constantly worried, they say that the bombs dropped on the coast destroyed entire cities. They say that they will drop here next. We are sure to be doomed!” That caught the house’s attention, and it snapped back a response, ignoring the shouts of afferment that the others gave.

  
“None shall harm us, none can harm us! What would they gain by coming here, even if they could?” It messaged furiously, relieved as the pings in its communication system fell silent once more. A single ping of agreement sounded, and soon the others all chorused together. The house at the top of the hill had spoken, it was a grand house, a perfect house, and what it said was never wrong.

  
Yet none of the houses noticed the steel mills growling in the background, none noticed the smoke turning the air black as it pumped out bullets, and weapons, and bombs, all vital for the war effort.

  
So caught up the house was, in its own blissful contemplation that it never heard the growl of planes engine’s in faraway lands, the chorus of people howling for destruction, for death.

  
“1 o’clock and all’s well.” The clock murmured drowsily once more. The children's playful ignorance blending seamlessly into its sentient mind.

  
In the morning, bacon and eggs were fried, bread was toasted and wheeled out onto platters that winged their way towards the table where the hungry children awaited. Orange juice was poured into waiting mugs as the family sat down to eat.

  
The drone of their voices was a welcome melody that the house sang to as it washed the dishes, cooked, and washed some more.  
Mr. McClellan sat and discussed with his wife the rumors swirling even thicker about them of the war threat bearing down upon them. Their voices were low as they argued softly but firmly back and forth.

  
“It’s not possible,” Mr. McClellan growled, his face darkening, hands curling into fists which he used to gesture about.

  
“And yet the gossip in town is all about it. I heard just an hour ago from our dear friends-”

  
“Yes, that’s just it, gossip.” Mr. McClellan interrupted, trying to wave his wife’s worries away, yet it couldn’t stop him from thinking. If it were no problem, why would everyone be talking about it? “No,” he muttered to himself, shaking away the nagging thoughts, “It’s called paranoia, and anxiety for a reason. Nothing will happen to us.”

  
The children sang and danced, unaware of their parents' inner worries. Their youthful ignorance on full display as little Ella was being twirled about by handsome Tom, their giddy laughter was like the sun peeping through the clouds on a rainy day.

  
“Mama, Papa please! Let’s play!” Tom shouted, stepping away from his sister. “I’ll grab the ball.” he cried, without even waiting for a chance to see if they could go outside. Mrs. McClellan laughed and patted Ella on the head,

  
“Of course dear, we’ll be right out.” She waited until Ella had dashed off before turning once more to her husband. “Let’s watch the children, and maybe we’ll get these dreadful thoughts out of our heads.”

  
The children returned, dashing towards the backyard door, tossing the ball carelessly as they went. Mr. McClellan opened his mouth to reprimand them, but stopped at his wife’s amused smile. He stood, giving her a mischievous grin before jogging to the door after the children.

  
Mrs. McClellan smiled, as through the window, she could see her husband begin to play, as if he were a child himself.

  
“House?” she called softly, “Read my favorite poem please.”

  
“And which would that be?” A cheerful voice popped up, teasing a laugh from its Mistress.

  
“Come on House, you know better, read There Will Come Soft Rains,” she commanded as she stood, moving to join her family in their play.

  
_There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,_ … a soft voice began.

  
Unnoticed by all, the distant thunder on the horizon began to intensify. A storm was gathering, one that mankind had scarcely known before. The storm held no thunder, only the roar of engines, and neither did it let lightning strike, nor wet rain fall.

  
The boy peered up into the sky, watching with rapt attention, waiting to see if his aim was true. The girl, eyes wide in her focus, arms held aloft to catch the falling projectile, could not hope to think that another was falling in time with the ball.

  
_Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,_  
_If mankind perished utterly;_ … the house intoned as the rains began to fall.


End file.
